The Eyes
by Samantha Riddle
Summary: Draco thinks about his life while he dies


Who would have thought he, a wealthy, attractive, selfish Malfoy, would ever have gone so low, to end his life, because he couldn't take reality any longer.  
  
No one.  
  
Perhaps it was because they didn't really know him. What they did know was the outside. The wrapping around a gift, the thin coating that hid all the pleasure inside. That was all they had ever cared to discover, and it had been enough for them.  
  
For most of his life, he had been okay with this. He didn't want them to understand the real boy behind the mask. Had they ever known half of his thoughts, they probably would have killed him. Maybe that would have been a blessing. Then all these years, and all of his suffering, would never have happened.  
  
Would his mother cry over his pale and lifeless body? Could father feel loss for more then his only heir? Was it too much to ask for, that a tear be shed for his self-inflicted death? With his family and friends, it probably was. No fellow student would morn. Perhaps Pansy would attend the funeral. That was of course, if they decided to have one. It would be so much easier to burn his body and be done with it. Father wouldn't stand for the pestiferous duties of a funeral. Truthfully, Lucius Malfoy only saw fit for duties when the Dark Lord gave them to him.  
  
The Dark Lord: the cause of his problems? No. He wouldn't go so far as to blame all this on him. The lunatic murderer hadn't asked his parents to treat him as they had. Of course, if the Dark Lord had never existed, things would have been easier to cope with. He would have been able to trust and follow his heart. Then life wouldn't have been so difficult. He wouldn't have done what he had, and maybe this night wouldn't be happening.  
  
He had killed raped, and tortured so many innocent people. The worse of all had been that little girl. That poor, innocent muggle-born child, only six years old. She had barely begun to live, and he had ended her life. Before her, he wouldn't have stopped to think about what he was doing. He wouldn't have dared to finally let all these emotions free as he wrote his final goodbye on his bedroom wall. in his own blood.  
  
It hadn't been so bad. Not the knife to his wrists, nor the final blow to his chest. The stinging had stopped; the pounding of his heart had died. Here he was, lying on the floor of the room he had slept in for years. He was damp with his own blood, his face as white as the walls around him. By now he was sure he should be dead, but his life force hung on just a bit longer. It wanted to get the last bit of suffering in. It wanted him to remember what the past eighteen years had done for him. He would never give his life that satisfaction. He refused to remember.  
  
He did not want to remember about that little boy who sat on the swing in the empty playground, lonely for someone to play with. Every day he sat there, while his mother went off to shop in the expensive stores in London. Everyday the muggle kids ran around him, ignoring the little pale haired boy as if he didn't exist. That little boy began to hate them. hate their laughter, and hate his mother, for leaving him there to deal with them.  
  
He did not want to remember the harsh punishment that little boy received from his father, the night after his trip into Diagon Alley to get his school supplies. His father had wanted to know why he had dared speak to that boy in the robe shop. How dare he act as if Potter was an equal? But the boy hadn't known it was Harry Potter, his father's sworn enemy. Father, the boy said, I didn't know. He didn't seem that bad. And of course, that little boy felt the pain of a Cruciatus Curse.  
  
That boy little boy had tried so hard in all his exams, and still that mudblood, Hermione Granger, had beaten him in every one. That hadn't gone over well with his parents at all. He was a Malfoy. He was their son. He was a pure blood. How could he have been beaten by some pathetic witch- wannabe? It was prosperous. There had to be something wrong with that little boy. He was stupid, and an unworthy son.  
  
What was wrong with that little boy? Why had his parent go looking for him at the end of his fourth year? How come he had been cursed by that Potter boy, and had been covered in hex marks, unconscious on the floor? Who's son was he? Certainly not theirs. Their son would not let Potter walk all over him. Their son was of course better then Potter. This little boy must have been switched at birth with their own, wonderful, perfect son.  
  
This poor little boy, he was finally going to be of use to his parents. His father, had been captured by the Order, and was now in serious trouble. The Dark Lord needed servants. Narcissa demanded that the boy join the Death Eaters. What choice did this poor boy have? He did it, and for the next four years of his life did what the Dark Lord said. He killed, raped, and tortured. He grew obsessed with it. He needed to kill. He must.  
  
Then that little boy saw those innocent blue eyes. He had pointed his wand at her, and ordered her to get the hell out of the way. She refused. Her eyes were filled with soft tears, and she clutched her teddy bear in her arms. She begged him not to kill her mother, that she never hurt anyone. Again, he demanded she move. He grew impatient. Without thinking, without rationalizing anything, he said those magic words.  
  
Avada Kedavra.  
  
The little girl fell backwards, the teddy bear still clutched in her hands. Her eyes remained open, and wide, filled with sorrow and misunderstanding for the world around her. Behind Draco, someone moved on ahead to kill her mother. Draco remained, and studied the child. She had soft red hair. and was so small you could easily just hold her in your arms, and never grow tired. But those eyes. those eyes held so much.  
  
For days they pierced his eyes. They haunted him. They followed him. They asked him why. Why had he murdered an innocent child? Why had he raped those girls? Why had he tortured those muggles? Why had he followed in his father's footsteps? Why had he listened to his mother? Why couldn't he just die? Yes why couldn't he die? It was easy. He'd do it.  
  
And he did.  
  
As the remainder of his life lingered in his body, all he could see were those blue eyes. They were so unlike anything he had ever seen. They came from her mother's side of the family, he was sure. Not from his. His new thoughts caused more agony then ever before, as the truth, the solid cold truth of what he had done hit him.  
  
He had murdered his daughter.  
  
She never knew it was he who was his father. She had never known that his father had fled when her mother found out that she was pregnant. Nevertheless, something in those eyes, something behind the fear, told him that she truly believed that he would not hurt her. Yet he hadn't listened to reason, and killed her in cold blood. So he would die. He would join his daughter in death and beg for forgiveness.  
  
Maybe then, after all this suffering, after this entire wasted life, he would be in peace. 


End file.
